


The Twentieth Bloom

by robotfvckers



Series: What 500 Followers Hath Wrought [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Centaurs, Deer, Fauns & Satyrs, Faunyatta, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, NSFW Art, You've been warned, centaur cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: A Faunyatta AU: The prince of the deer tribe will not fail his quest.





	The Twentieth Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: heat cycles, centaur cock, animal characteristics
> 
> Art by [heronfoot](http://heronfoot.tumblr.com/)!

The last of his spots fade from his hide, and still Zenyatta does not feel the earth as the others do.

His brother worries, but though he cannot join his peers in melting the last frost and breathing life into the earth, Zenyatta is ever the cheerful prince.

Some whisper of the unwoken son, an ill omen, a _quiet_ , but it is only ever whispers. Zenyatta visits each of his kin in turn, helps forage, keeps them safe. He sings and spars and solves disputes in clever ways; his curious reasoning, mindful and long-sighted, never fails to bring peace and happiness to the deer tribe.

* * *

On his 18th bloom, Mondatta acquiesces with crestfallen eyes that Zenyatta is quiet. He cannot melt the frost, cannot lie or be laid to seed the bloom. Genji pleads mercy, and the king waves his hand with an angry huff.

“Quiet, child. How foolish and cruel you think me, that I would cast out my own brother.”

Genji, bowed low, presses his nose to the grass.

“I only wish for Zenyatta to remain here.”

“Genji.” Zenyatta murmurs.

“As do we all.” Mondatta says, turning towards Zenyatta with a tight expression. “The horse tribe roams the plains three sun’s passes from our sanctuary. Useful allies, dangerous enemies. We have not parlayed with them in many years.”

Mondatta raises his hand, and Zenyatta takes it in his own, kneeling amongst the flowers blooming at his brother’s hooves.

“Zenyatta, my brother, my heir, you will be my emissary to the horse tribe. This bloom and every after, you will deliver them an offering of good will.”

* * *

Late in his 20th bloom, Zenyatta begins his journey in high spirits. He loves the sights and smells and sleeping beneath a canopy of leaf and star. He loves the vast flatness of the plains, its greens and browns, an endless blanket of swaying grass. Most of all, he loves the large, curious kin that walk on four hooves, the horses who live and fight and love beneath the open sky.

On the first night, he finds himself restless, even as he burrows into soft, sweet grass and breathes in the familiar scent of it. The next morning he stops at a stream to drink but cannot slake his thirst. He eats his rations early, hunger gnawing at his guts. He wonders if he is sick, but he prays and continues, trusting it will pass before long.

The second day is sluggish, and he runs to keep pace, dizziness claiming him when he stops to rest. Too far to turn back, too proud to open the offering and retrieve the hard-fought medicine inside.

He meets dawn of the third day with sleepless eye, body warm and vision soft at the edges. He can see the plains through the openings of the trees, and it is enough to keep him moving steadily forward. Sweat beads down his forehead, even in the cool shade of the forest, and hunger has left him, though his thirst grows. His skin prickles, starting at his extremities before throbbing inward, a slow push-pull that has his heart thundering in his chest. His stomach clenches, something curling deep and low, lower still.

Zenyatta trails a trembling hand down the slickened plane of his stomach, carding through his fur, and finds himself swollen and feverish.

Three sun passes to his domain. An afternoon’s walk to the plains. Zenyatta clutches the offering.

Mondatta gave him purpose, and he will not fail.

* * *

The king of the plains, of pale hair and eyes, is gruff, but kind, smiling when he sees Zenyatta emerging from the trees. His small entourage flanks him, each happy in turn; even far from home, Zenyatta is a welcome sight.

Then the prince stumbles, and Jack isn’t smiling anymore. He canters forward without hesitation.

“Prince Zenyatta—”

The smell stops him mid-stride.

He knows of deer and their early ruts. Zenyatta was always neutral, child-like, sweet from the flowers and the earth of the forest. The rich, heady, near cloying scent, a perfume in the back of his throat, is anything but. Even advanced as he is, mated as he is, the king feels the pull, the want, prickling along his hide.

One of his does not have the same reservations. Gabriel halts next to him, hooves stamping at the grass.

“He’s at the cusp. Thought he was quiet.” Gabriel says, and he keeps the trembling prince in his sights as the deer struggles forward, barely able to stand.

“There are no deer for days. We can’t leave him like this.”

Gabriel snorts and crosses his arms beneath his broad, scarred chest.

“You disrespect him. He doesn’t need pity. He needs to be _challenged_.”

“Gabe, don’t.” Jack growls, warning in every line of his body.

Gabriel stares at Jack then, dark eyes blown darker, affected like Jack hasn’t seen in years.

“He is a prince, and their people follow the old laws.” Gabriel straightens to full height, muscles drawn taut. His tail whips. “I will fight to claim him. Will you challenge me, my king?”

The way Gabriel says it is an insult. Their past is tumultuous, but true.

Jack sighs, then shakes his head.

Gabriel, purposeful and rigid, treads towards the treeline.

* * *

“Sir Gabriel.” Zenyatta breathes, knuckles white from his grip on the offering.

Gabriel stalls at the sudden influx of scent, momentarily stunned. The prince knows not his allure; even dormant, he was a fine thing: dark-skinned and freckled, lithe but strong in arm and thigh, the golden markings of his lineage catching in the sun.

The onset of rut only enhances him. His skin glistens; his soft, shy nipples peak. The prince flushes everywhere fur gives way to skin. His cock presents, barely emerged from its sheath, rosy and dewed, and the sight makes Gabriel’s mouth water.

He takes a decisive step forward and sees the instant Zenyatta smells his musk, eyes grown round, amber swallowed in black.

“I will accept your offering on my king’s behalf.” Gabriel says in greeting.

“He will not...take it himself?” The prince tries to hide the hurt confusion in his voice, but Gabriel can read him as easily as the stars.

“I will not let him near.” He says, with an air of finality. He extends his hands.

Zenyatta takes a few hesitant steps forward. He shudders then, like a wounded animal, and drops his gaze.

“I...I do not understand. He is your king.” He bites his lip. Gabriel’s chest tightens.

The deer does not _know_.

“You are blooming, prince.” Gabriel says, as gently as he can.

Zenyatta’s mouth slackens, and slowly he looks up at Gabriel, eyes wide and glazed over.

“I will not let him approach. None of them dare.” He takes the offering from Zenyatta’s slack fingers, shocked by their feverish heat. “We may spar, if you like. I will win.”

He turns back; Jack and his inner court linger, and even at the distance, he knows they watch closely, scenting them both on the wind. Gabriel trots forward, and his second meets him halfway to accept the offering. Jesse, normally so care-free and laid back, frowns.

“Best ya hurry.” Jesse says, nodding towards the prince when the exchange is complete.

Gabriel, puzzled, looks back.

His eyes quicken across the treeline in time to see Zenyatta’s tail slip into the underbrush.

“Be gentle!” Jesse’s voice echoes behind him.

* * *

He drags the prince deeper into the forest. Not for privacy; had he his way he would lay the prince for all to witness. Gabriel is pragmatic; he simply needs to find the proper location for his intentions.

Zenyatta struggles against him, fruitless and half-hearted. His hooves dig into the grass as he pushes at Gabriel’s hand locked around his forearm. When his legs finally give, Gabriel hefts the slight deer into his arms. The prince chirps at the sudden height, arms lacing behind Gabriel’s neck in an instant.

  
Art by [heronfoot](http://heronfoot.tumblr.com/)

“Why are you resisting?” Gabriel says, eyes cast forward, spotting what he’s looking for. He halts in front of a downed tree, soft with moss, not quite reclaimed by the earth.

“I-I…” Zenyatta curls in on himself, but that only puts him closer to Gabriel’s scent. His warm nose presses into the crook of Gabriel’s neck and Zenyatta breathes, exhales, shakes. Gabriel’s hands, curled around his furred thighs, tighten.

“Careful. You try a horse’s patience, scenting so needfully.”

The horse kneels as smoothly as he can and settles the deer across the soft moss of the downed tree.

“Ah.” Gabriel says, pinning Zenyatta’s stomach with one hand as he wriggles, the other catching the slight hooved leg as it kicked at his chest. Zenyatta’s rounded nails tug at the moss at his sides, uprooting the soft flora. “Settle down.”

Zenyatta stills, eyes watery and wide.

“Stars above, prince. Tell me what you want. Quickly, before the bloom takes you.” Gabriel sighs and rubs the tense spot between his brows. “You can face your rut alone. It will hurt, but you will live. If not.”

He stares into those wide brown eyes cast in his shadow, cards through the fur at the divot of Zenyatta’s hipbone, watching the pelt spread like silk; the prince’s stomach heaves, his voice high and fluttery. His cock, barely presented, slips out a few inches more, wet and sweet, bobbing with an unconscious roll of the deer’s hips. His ears twitch, hand brought up to cover his own scarlet mouth.

“I will not hurt you.”

Zenyatta nods. It is all the agreement Gabriel needs.

* * *

The prince opens to him easily once he has him stomach down and curled over the tree. His tail flickers and holds high as Gabriel spreads his cheeks with calloused hands, licking deep, making his hole soft and open for him. He will need more than this, but the prince seems not to know, rutting back in little shivery jerks against his tongue, whining into his forearm. The fur beneath his hole grows matted from his mouth, spit slicking his own beard. The prince tastes of salt and sweet grass, and it only makes Gabriel want more. His own cock presents, beading between his hind legs, so heavy with blood it flattens the grass beneath it.

Gabriel continues teasing him, pressing inside, face buried, tongue flicking, twisting as deep as he can force it; Zenyatta’s small, startled gasps are a spell upon him, his smell ever growing around them. Anyone near would know by scent alone what occurs, and that makes Gabriel harder still.

He works his mouth until the prince is soft and pliant, and only then does he slip his fingers inside, slickened more so by his own stash of oil. He buries his finger to the second knuckle, curling, and a peal of high-pitched whimpers bubbles from the prince; the deer tightens, flexes.

“I-I’m…” Zenyatta moans, closed mouth, body drawn taut like a bow.

“Yes, come for me.”

And the prince does, violently and loud, rocking on his finger, Gabriel biting back his own moan. His cock jerks at the influx of scent, watching the prince squirm and lose himself in the very beginnings of his rut. The world goes soft, intensifies. Gabriel blinks, shakes his head against the strange sensation.

Zenyatta begs when Gabriel rises on shaking hooves, taking care as he balances above him. He can’t see the faun fully, only his hands scrabbling at the log, but he hears his gasps, feel his cock bump against his wet, twitching hole.

“Lie still.” Gabriel murmurs, voice tight, feels his cockhead catch against his rim for an instant before it slips past, sliding between his cheeks.

Zenyatta whines, ass pressing up against the length of his cock, almost teasing, though he can’t mean it, not when he’s begging so sweetly, a near wordless mantra of groans and whimpers.

“Please, Sir-Gabri...plea...se…!!”

“Spread yourself.” Gabriel whispers, angling back again. He feels Zenyatta shift, and Gabriel wishes more than anything to see the prince displaying, presenting himself, but he’ll accept the slick hole that’s opened just enough for him to catch against, just enough to press forward and finally sink inside.

It’s tight, near impossibly so, and Zenyatta keens, wild and broken, as the first inch breaches him. So much smaller than his kin would be. Gabriel’s eyes cross with the clench, and he grits his teeth.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Another inch forward and he feels the prince’s hole flutter, drawing so tight it hurts. Zenyatta wails, pulsing around him; Gabriel swears as the prince spills again, his rosy cock throbbing against the soft moss, slickening his stomach and chest with it. The strange sensation clouds Gabriel’s senses once more, and he feels his own cock pulse dangerously, bites back the feeling of orgasm as vines lick at his hooves, curl up the log, buds popping around them as the prince writhes and cries.

Gabriel shushes him as he rocks, slow and shallow, sweat beading along his brow. He never pushes too deep, knows that any beast has limits, especially one so slight. Zenyatta seems not to know or care; the prince grabs his front legs, trembling, trying to gain leverage and force himself back, force Gabriel deeper inside with soft, needy grunts. Gabriel only laughs shakily, drunk on the rich scent of sex and loam and new life, on the prince himself, his sweet sounds glowing in his mind.

* * *

It’s nightfall when the prince’s ardor ebbs. They rest against the downed tree, Zenyatta curled into Gabriel’s hide. Around them grows luminous new flora, and flowers bloom into a crown about the prince’s antlers. Gabriel watches the deep rise and fall of his chest, catalogs each dark mark where his lips have claimed the prince, and feels deep contentment. He wonders if he could return with Zenyatta, pledge his loyalty to a young prince rather than a grizzled king.

Gabriel curls his hand tighter around Zenyatta’s waist and stares between the leaves, finding a piece of the night sky. He vows, solemn and wordless, to the stars.

  
Art by [heronfoot](http://heronfoot.tumblr.com/)


End file.
